When You Play With a Loaded Gun
by Luck Kazajian
Summary: I don't guess that any of us thought he'd bring Zulf back alive. Not after what he did to us. But that's what mercy's for, ain't it? And gods know, the Kid's got a heart of gold. Even with the world out to kill him at every turn. So don't take him yet, Micia, please. This hero's got a lot of life left in him. She needs him. I need him. The Bastion needs him. (Oneshot)


**I just finished playing Bastion through for the second time and I loved the game just as much the second time through as I did the first. And I got an idea for a oneshot as I played through the scene where you chose to save or leave Zulf (I've always saved him). That scene makes me cry every time so I decided to go into a little more depth about what might have transpired between Zulf and the Kid during this scene.**

 **I also want to give credit for the cover art. It's one of my favorite Bastion pictures that I've found online. It took me a while to find the artist, but credit goes to Aedsu on Deviantart.**

* * *

 **When You Play With a Loaded Gun**

"Zulf!" the Kid yells. He can see that familiar yellow tunic just ahead, surrounded by a pack of angry Ura. They don't look like they're gonna let him live. The Kid runs. "Zulf!"

The Ura don't even spare a glance for the Kid. They just keep beating Zulf. Zulf goes down in a flurry of blows. The Ura don't see the battering ram until it's too late. They fall like peckers to a Brusher's pike. They all fall. Even Zulf.

The Kid drops to his knees on the ice beside Zulf, his battering ram forgotten. Zulf doesn't move, doesn't look up, doesn't speak. He's bloody and beaten-hardly looks like the rebel who broke the Bastion and ran off with the Calamity journal anymore. All that anger the Kid had for Zulf melts when he sees him like this. Zulf got his reward for betraying us. Doesn't look like he enjoyed it much.

The Kid puts a hand in front of Zulf's mouth. A breath. He lays his head on Zulf's chest. A heartbeat. Zulf is alive. The Kid sits up."I won't let another one go on my watch," he murmurs, half to himself. "Not again."

He has to get Zulf out of there. But he can't carry Zulf and his battering ram at the same time. The Kid doesn't pause. He leaves the battering ram and gets his arms around Zulf. He stands up, pulling Zulf over his right shoulder. Zulf moans as the Kid gets him up. The Ura hangs over his shoulder like deadweight. The Kid staggers forward, breath hitching as he slips on the icy ground. But then he finds his footing and he takes a step forward - sure, slow, steady.

"Don't die on me, Zulf," the Kid says, shifting Zulf across his back. "You've got to live, dammit!" The Kid never imagined he'd find Zulf like this. And even though the bastard nearly destroyed the Bastion, the Kid can't find it in his heart to hate him. Not anymore. The Kid sniffs, holding back tears as he trudges forward. Those little drops of water surprise him just as much as me. No one thought the Kid had it in him to cry. Not after all he's seen. He tilts his face away so Zulf can't see.

Zulf takes a breath and the Kid near jumps out of his skin, the sound loud in the icy silence.

"What is there...to live for?" Zulf asks, sounding like a man in need of a good sip of Lifewine.

The Kid blinks furiously to hide fresh tears. "The future," he says, as he takes another step. He can see the Ura in front of him now, ghostly sentinels in the mist. He knows they can see him. They raise their crossbows. But the only way out is forward. "For all the things you haven't done yet," the Kid says, turning his body so he becomes a shield for Zulf.

He keeps walking. The first of the bolts strikes the ice by his right foot - a warning. The Kid swallows hard and keeps moving.

"The past," he says. The second bolt sinks deep into his thigh. The Kid chokes back a cry and soldiers on. "For the memories of the ones you've lost."

Zulf lays still on his shoulder. But his breathing sounds a little steadier.

The third bolt catches the Kid in the left shoulder. The Kid cries out, but keeps moving. "The present," the Kid says, tears streaming down his face now.

Another bolt punches him in the back harder than any lunkhead. The Kid coughs, spitting blood. It drips down the corner of his mouth and onto the ice. "For the things you believe in." The Kid's voice is just a whisper now, but he keeps talking. Keeps walking. Keeps carrying Zulf.

The last bolt sinks into his calf and he stumbles, falling to his knees. Blood spatters the ground, but he keeps his grip on Zulf. The world blurs. An Ura sharpshooter stands over him, crossbow nocked, bolt aimed for his heart.

"For the things you wish you could undo," he says, looking straight at the sharpshooter. "For the ones you wish you could save." the Kid lowers his head to the ice, feeling the cold penetrate his soul. "For me, Zulf."

For a moment, all is still. Nothing moves. No more crossbow bolts. No more talking. No more living. The only sound in the still air is Zulf's slow breathing and the Kid's wracking sobs. And then he hears the scuff of footsteps and he looks up and the Ura sharpshooter stands aside, crossbow pointed at the ground. The Kid looks around. All the Ura stand aside, their weapons down.

The Kid staggers to his feet, yelling as the bolts buried in his flesh bite deeper than a stabweed needle. He spits blood and slogs forward, step by step, the Ura silent witness to a bloodstained march. No one takes a shot. No one moves but the Kid.

He sees the second sharpshooter before he reaches the skyway. This Ura stands on an ice shelf over the Kid's head. He points his crossbow at the Kid's heart, sighting down the length of his bolt. The Kid swallows hard. Blood trickles down his throat. He slips on the ice and whimpers. But he keeps his feet. The sharpshooter smiles, a slow, wicked smile. The shot is child's play. The Kid can't get out of the way.

The Kid closes his eyes. He thinks about praying, but he isn't sure what to say or who to say it to. _The gods won't pick you up, son. Not when you play with a loaded gun._

Well, he's played with the loaded gun alright. And it's going to bite him. Like trying to stay on Pyth's back when he's all fired up and finding out there ain't nothing to hold onto.

 _I'm sorry,_ he says through chattering teeth, but no words come out.

The Kid opens his eyes. If he's going to die, he's going to look death in the eye when it happens. The sharpshooter laughs. His finger tightens on the trigger. And then a blade erupts from his chest. Hot blood splatters the Kid's face. The Ura's laugh turns into a strangled cry, thin, pitiful, cowardly. He collapses and tumbles off the ice shelf, lifeless.

An Ura Blade stands behind him, bloody sword held up. He salutes the Kid.

The Kid keeps walking. The Ura stand like statues as he makes his way to the skyway.

The world fades now, going black where it should be white. Zulf feels like a thousand pounds weighing him down. But he can't let go. Not this close to the skyway. Not this close to the Bastion. Not this close to Zia and me.

The Kid falls to his knees ten feet from the skyway. He crawls across the ice. Five feet. He collapses. He drags himself across the ice. Zulf too. Two feet. Four inches. There. His hand touches the edge of the skyway and he feels the familiar twist in his gut as the ground drops out from under him. He lets the dark take him, like Micia herself is wrapping him in her arms.

* * *

The Kid and Zulf fall out of the sky looking like Pyth chewed them up and spit them back out. They hit the Bastion like falling stars with a bloody tail. I'm already running toward them before they stop moving. Zulf drags himself to his hands and knees first, head hanging like a beat dog. I can see the dark hollows in his eyes where something bright used to flicker. Ain't nothing there now. Zulf's a man without a soul.

"He saved me," he says, pointing at the Kid. Then he just stares at the ground like he wants it to open up and swallow him.

I follow his pointing finger to the bloody form of the Kid. He's got more arrows sticking in him than a stabweed bush's got needles. For a minute, I think Micia's already taken him, but then he coughs. He shudders like the Grand Rail at Point Lemaign. Zia runs up behind me, but I hold out an arm. I don't want her to see the Kid like this. Not yet.

"Take Zulf," I say.

"But - " she begins.

"Take Zulf."

She doesn't argue this time. She spares a worried glance for the Kid, then gets her arm under Zulf's shoulder and helps him back to camp. I don't worry about leaving her alone with Zulf now. He's in no condition to pull another stunt. And this time, Zia's smarter. Zulf won't pull the wool over her eyes again.

When she walks away, I kneel by the Kid.

"Hey, Kid," I say.

He opens his eyes. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. I don't know how I'm gonna patch him up this time. He looks like he's got a snowball's chance in the Cauldron to survive this one.

"Why'd you do it?" I say.

He just smiles.

"Gods, Kid, I thought you'd be the one to win," I say. Even with all the knowledge that a lifetime gives you, it never prepares you for stuff like this.

The Kid motions at Zia and Zulf's retreating figures. _I did win._

There's an awful lot of blood on the ground under the Kid. I need to get him up and get him to my tent. "I ain't gonna lie to you, Kid," I say. "You're gonna have to stand up one more time. I ain't as strong as I wish I was."

The Kid grimaces and tries to stand. He doesn't make it.

"C'mon, Kid, get up." I offer him a hand. He takes it and tries to rise again. More blood drips from his mouth. He coughs again and collapses.

"Get up, Kid. That ain't funny," I say.

The Kid shakes his head. He's not joking.

I feel ice settle in my bones like the Ura in the Tazal Terminals. I put my cane on the ground and get my arms around the Kid's shoulders. I did my time on the wall. Picking up deadweight ain't nothing new. But it's been a while since I had to put these muscles to use and my body ain't what it used to be.

"Get up, Kid," I say one more time, as I haul on his shoulders. This time he stands. He looks like a bloody hero. Like some sort of champion of The Morning Stallion. I get him to my tent in a few minutes, but it feels like an agonizing few hours as he makes slow steps across the Bastion. When we get inside, I lay him on my bed and begin to take a look at the arrows buried in him. He lays on his side, facing the wall because he's got a damn arrow in his back.

"I'll have to pull these out, Kid."

He nods weakly.

"You want something for the pain?" I ask.

He shakes his head and wads a corner of the pillow into his mouth. He's telling me to get it over with. I close my eyes and hope to Micia I don't kill him.

He goes stiffer than a Brusher's pike as I pull arrows out of him, one by one. The wounds ooze fresh blood and I take the time to stem the blood and bandage each wound before moving on to the next one. I save the arrow in his back for last.

I put a hand against his skin. It's hotter than the Cauldron. I grab the arrow buried just above his hip and pull. This time, the Kid can't hold back his cry of pain. But it's not a scream. It's not a yell. It's something small and pitiful. The call of a lost squirt looking for its mother. But I've got the arrow out and I bandage him up fast. When I'm done, I lay him back on the bed and watch him breathe, counting each breath and making sure they don't stop. He's pale as an Ura and his face is tight with pain. But he breathes. In and out. Steady as Weeping Nelly.

"Jevel, Lemaign, Micia, Olak," I invoke the name of any god who might have a hand in the Kid's fate. "You've seen what he's done," I say. A prayer, perhaps, though I haven't prayed in so long, I'm not sure I remember how. "If you've got any mercy in those cold hearts of yours, you won't let this hero die."

"I thought you said...they didn't listen," the Kid whispers. He cracks an eye open and looks at me with the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You shouldn't believe everything an old fool tells you, Kid."

The Kid laughs despite his injuries.

And I feel, deep in my bones, that he'll be ok. Like Micia herself has told me that it's not his day yet. And I think that maybe, just maybe, this old fool was wrong about the gods. Perhaps they do listen sometimes.


End file.
